The Texts Of Festival (3 page)

It was the years in between that she tried never to let pass through her mind. After years of security, the pain was still too strong for her to be able to cope with the memory of the day when the Christies had broken into her mother’s tiny home.

She herself, at the time a young girl, had heard the rumours of how Peter the Blessed had raised his legion of Christ and roamed the country, destroying outlying homesteads and burning those who told the cards and made ceremony at the trees.

Of course, they had never thought it could happen to them. They had believed the Christie fanaticism would pass like the other fads. They had gone on believing it until the day that the Christies came.

She had been sitting in front of the cottage when they had stormed up the lane. The memory was so clear and vivid: the sunlight, the dusty earth in front of the cottage where the goat was tethered and the chickens scratched. Then suddenly they had flooded the lane, dozens of them in their dirty white robes, screaming their cursed text.

Howling ‘All you need is love’, they had kicked her aside and dragged her mother out of the cottage.

Johanna shuddered. It was too late now to stop the memory; she should never have started such thoughts. It flooded back, how they had held her and smashed down the cottage to make fuel for their awful bonfire. How they had kindled the heaped, broken timbers and bundles of thatch, bound her and her mother, dragged her mother to the flames while she was forced to watch and then flogged her until her mother’s screams had completely ceased. Above all she remembered the staring eyes and sweating faces that had stood round her in the dust after it was over and the hoarse voice that told her that Christ loved her. She remembered their leaving and the night of weeping in the ashes.

Then had come the painful journey into Festival to beg and steal and later to become a listless whore on the Drag. A time when the only punctuation had been a fierce joy at the news that Joe Starkweather had led his men out of the western commune and massacred the Christies in the October battle.

She finally met Aaron though and loved him. They had brought up their children in the gunmaker’s trade; the giving had been good and the dark years had been put behind.

There were the times, however, when remembering could not be totally avoided.

Old Johanna’s painful reverie was stopped as she noticed the lengthening shadows and she rose to busy herself inside the tent. Aaron would soon return hungry from the metal dealers.

As she replaced her pipe in the pouch on her belt, a small furtive man hurried out of the shadows. He wore a dirty, mud-caked cloak many sizes too large and the bushy red hair that framed his rodent face was matted with dust. She backed towards the tent door, ready to call for Vernon.

Jo-Jo stared at the old woman. She looked spooked by him; maybe he looked more beat up than he imagined. He came quickly to the point.

‘Ave any filled thirty-eights?’

Although when on his own, or talking with young women, he used the purer hill dialect of his own village, he now adopted the rough tongue of common Festival to bargain with this stout matron. The woman stopped edging towards the tent door and eyed him sharply.

‘Filled thirty-eights? You got trades?’

‘I got empties fo’ trades.’

The woman eyed him suspiciously. Ammunition was the high currency of Festival. By his appearance Johanna hardly expected him to have either bar room or dealer script, let alone real shells.

‘How many empties?’

‘Twenty.’

Johanna thought quickly. The man appeared to have no place holding even dead shells: his canvas leggings indicated that he didn’t have the price of a pair of boots. He was probably a mugger or heistman. She saw the chance of a quick profit.

‘Six filled fo’ twenty empty.’

‘You rip me off, ol’ woman, I could get twelve for twenty in tomorra’s market.’

‘Get to market then.’

Johanna made as if to go into the tent. Jo-Jo spoke quickly.

‘Wait, I need filled shells tonight. Maybe I take ten.’ Johanna stopped and looked him up and down.

‘Eight.’

Jo-Jo hesitated; perhaps he could get nine. Johanna began to look impatient. Jo-Jo changed his mind; eight was better than nothing.

‘Done.’

Johanna leaned into the tent and shouted:

‘Vernon! Bring out eight filled thirty-eights.’ She turned to Jo-Jo. ‘You got the empties?’

Jo-Jo handed over the twenty dead shells. Almost immediately a boy — he judged him to be about fifteen — emerged from the tent and gave his mother a handful of bullets. Johanna counted them into Jo-Jo’s hand.

‘You sure these’re good?’

Jo-Jo shot the old woman a suspicious glance as he thumbed the shells into his belt. The woman glared at him.

‘My husband’s a master gunsmith, we don’t rip off honest folk.’

‘Okay, okay, I just asked.’

Jo-Jo hurried off. Johanna ducked inside the tent and rubbed her hands on her homespun smock. The evening meal would be late but she couldn’t have turned down that end-of-the-day profit.

Jo-Jo hurried towards the Drag. It was almost dark, and braziers and rubbish fires blazed every four or five paces. The avenues between the squat tents and single-storey wooden shacks were illuminated by their dull glow and the acrid smoke that drifted and billowed across his path.

He was some way from the Drag and he decided to take a chance on cutting through the Merchants’ Quarter.

In front of a lavish tent of matched hides, supported by stout carved and polished poles, a chained dog barked and snarled at him. Two armed retainers emerged from the tent and Jo-Jo slid into the shadows and crouched very still. Word of his flight might have spread and he could not afford to get careless. After peering into the smoky gloom for a while, one of the retainers cursed the dog and then went back inside. Jo-Jo scuttled away.

The torches that lined the Drag were almost welcoming. He began to walk straighter, conscious of the gun on his hip and secure in the familiar dim lights that shone out of the doorways and across the porches of the big, wooden pleasure houses that lined the dirty, crowded streets. The sound of music and raucous laughter reassured him as he avoided the drunks and beggars who thronged the steps to the gambling joints and whore houses. There in Festival’s red-light district he was safe, unless the lord’s men should mount a full-scale raid and that seldom if ever happened.

Fingers from the darkness tugged at Jo-Jo’s cloak.

‘Wanna space fo’ fun, stranger?’

Jo-Jo spun round. A youngish woman with the hard smile of the full-time whore stood looking at him. She let her brown, shapeless wrap drop open to display a flash of white breasts and stomach. Jo-Jo grinned.

‘Later, babe, later.’

He’d have a dozen whores at the end of the night but right now his luck was running and he was going to clean up.

‘Okay honey, don’t say you missed out.’

The girl swayed off looking for johns more anxious to play. Jo-Jo moved on, no longer hurrying but content to stroll and savour the atmosphere of the Drag. In front of Harry Krishna’s Last Chance he paused. Maybe he should start with a couple of the smaller joints and build up a stake, but then again he had eight shells and the piece for capital. Why not start at the top?

Jo-Jo marched up to the swing doors.

The heat, noise, and smell of weed and spirit hit Jo-Jo like a physical force. Flickering lamps swung under the low-beamed roof and were reflected by the big cracked mirror behind the bar. A guitar player sat on a small raised platform and tried desperately to be heard above the conversation of the fifty or so drifters, hustlers, whores and tribesmen who thronged the bar and crowded around the half-dozen gambling tables.

The people in any gambling joint can be divided into two strict groups, the hunters and the prey, and although individuals may swap roles the rule remains absolute. One man who prided himself on always running with the hunt was Frankie Lee.

Frankie Lee sat at his table with the air of a man who owned it. It was the table where everyone knew they could find him; where he took care of business and he ran the game.

He wore a black velvet frock coat, the kind of pre-disaster relic that marked the successful gambler. The tight raw-hide trousers and high-heeled boots also had marks of a hustler who had made it, as did the gold earring that glinted as he brushed back his mass of black curly hair. The look of money made him seem taller than his true height which was only medium, and his sharp, weather-beaten face had the look of one who spends a lot of time knowing or at least bluffing that he is right.

Through the weed smoke and between the line of men and women at the bar, Frankie had noticed the furtive form of Jo-Jo come in. Maybe the loser had ripped himself a stake. Frankie had taken Jo-Jo three times before, this hill boy who fancied himself as a hotshot card player. No matter how he tried to hide his country ways, that Jo-Jo was a rube loser. Frankie sat and waited; Jo-Jo would be over to play him.

Before coming into the Chance Jo-Jo had jacked four of his shells into the gun. That left him four to play with. He put them on the counter in front of the barkeep.

‘Change these into script.’

‘Sure,’ the barkeep shuffled away and returned to dump a small pile of tokens and paper on the bar. Jo-Jo pushed a single token towards him.

The barkeep handed Jo-Jo a mug of beer. Jo-Jo turned, beer in hand, and faced the room. On the far side of the room Frankie Lee pretended not to notice him. Tonight, Jo-Jo thought, tonight I’ll clean out that superior mother. He swallowed his beer and made his way through the crowd to where Frankie sat.

‘Hi there, Frankie Lee.’

‘Greetin’ rube, have a seat.’

Frankie Lee grinned at him, flashing his gold tooth. Yeah, thought Jo-Jo, tonight you are really going to pay for riding me. Frankie riffled the deck of worn dirty cards.

‘What’s your pleasure, rube?’

Jo-Jo hesitated and to cover his indecision he leaned back in his chair. Frankie grinned again as though he knew his ploy.

‘How about twocard kid? That your strength?’

‘Suits me.’

‘You sure? It could cost you.’

Jo-Jo reached inside his cloak and pulled out the handful of papers and tokens, dropping them on the table.

‘Strong enough to start?’

Frankie was stuffing his pipe with weed. He struck a flame, inhaled and blew smoke across the table towards Jo-Jo. In the centre of its wooden top, stained black by a century of spilled alcohol, was a deck of dirty, dog-eared cards.

‘Yeah — cut to deal?’

Frankie tapped them.

‘Why not.’

Jo-Jo turned up a seven; Frankie showed a jack and reached for the cards. He called a low ante and Jo-Jo slid a handful of tokens across the table. Frankie Lee dealt the cards.

Frankie had won the first game but the pot had remained small. Jo-Jo then won the next three in a row. The first two had been worth very little, but the third had built a little and Jo-Jo began to suspect that his feeling on the road had been correct. Frankie won the next and for the three hands after Jo-Jo did nothing, folding immediately. Then Jo-Jo was dealt a pair and forced up the bidding against Frankie’s queen. Frankie had no second queen and the pot gave Jo-Jo double the script that he had brought to the table.

As the size of stakes started to increase, a small knot of drifters and bar girls formed around the table, the majority standing behind Frankie Lee, watching his cards. There was little action on the next few games and the spectators began to drift back to the bar or the faster play of the dice table.

Before the next game Frankie yelled for a drink and Jo-Jo began to feel a sense of elation. After the hole cards had been dealt he paused before making his bet.

‘Frankie, you don’t look too happy, old buddy.’

Frankie stared coldly at Jo-Jo.

‘Make your bet, rube.’

‘Hold on there, old buddy. Give me a filla weed.’ Jo-Jo paused as he picked up Frankie’s pouch. ‘Ain’t that my country ways are gettin’ to you? Ain’t that, is it old buddy?’

Jo-Jo put a flame to his pipe and inhaled. For a second he held his breath, then he blew very deliberately at Frankie who scowled and said nothing. Jo-Jo looked at his hole card. It was a ten. Slowly and with care Jo-Jo divided his money into four equal piles; then he pushed one of the piles into the centre of the table. Frankie met the bet. The pile of money in front of him was dwindling rapidly. With a rigid face he dealt the second cards. Jo-Jo showed a queen and Frankie a seven. Jo-Jo grinned, expecting Frankie to fold. Instead he checked and Jo-Jo, still grinning, slid the second of his four piles across the table. But still Frankie Lee didn’t fold. Using all the money he had left on the table, he raised Jo-Jo’s bet. Jo-Jo’s rat-grin faded a little but, still smiling, he put his two remaining piles into the middle. Frankie had no more money; he had to fold this time. But Frankie was reaching inside his shirt, pulling out a wad of papers. He was raising the bet again.

Doubt rushed into Jo-Jo’s mind. Maybe he was holding a pair. He pushed back the idea. It was his night and he had everything on these cards. It was too late to fold. It was his night; he had to win.

Jo-Jo stood up. He undid his gunbelt and laid it on the pile of money.

‘I’m callin’ you, Frankie, I reckon that covers the bet.’ Frankie said nothing. He just smiled and turned over an ace.

Jo-Jo went limp. No, it couldn’t be, it couldn’t be. He’d blown it. His hand darted for the gun.

Before Jo-Jo had even pulled the gun clear of the belt, a little single-shot ball gun had appeared in Frankie Lee’s hand. The round ball had taken Jo-Jo in the chest, knocking him back into his chair. For a moment he had hung there and then the chair toppled and he hit the floor.

In that moment Jo-Jo realised that, if his run of luck had really ever started, it was now finished for good.

3.

The spread fingers were rigid on the wooden table. The knife was a blur as it rose and fell, stabbing viciously at the spaces between the fingers. The men in the tent finished the chant with a shout and Nath stood back from the table, wiping the sweat from his shaved head. Dimly he was pleased that his turn in the knife game was safely over, for, although proud of his speed, old Wob had lost a finger not long ago. He was content to chant with the rest.